


oh, that deceit could dwell in such a gorgeous palace

by strangelysweet



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akechi Goro Lives, Dark, Implied Sexual Content, Love/Hate, M/M, Romeo and Juliet References, akechi goro has issues, lots of issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23527063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangelysweet/pseuds/strangelysweet
Summary: akechi goro hates him.he hates him so much he wants to die.but to die before he does would mean akechi goro loses.akechi goro hates losing, but losing to him?a fate worse than death, of course.but the way he looks right now?goro could ascend.
Relationships: Akechi Goro & Persona 5 Protagonist, Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira
Comments: 2
Kudos: 75





	oh, that deceit could dwell in such a gorgeous palace

Seventy-six bullets.

Akechi Goro had shot seventy-six bullets since he had entered the casino. 

His “leader” had put him on the second wave of infiltration, but he hung back, a few corners behind the others as they raced ahead. He needed the distance. Knowing they couldn’t hear him, Goro didn’t hold back. He would go in for the kill, the brutal, slow, _agonizing_ kill. That was how he found himself sans seventy-six bullets. He didn’t expect there to be so many places he could shoot shadows that made the same noises that he was itching to pull from Shido. The pathetic screeches, the way they stretched in the most uncomfortable places in his skull, were enough to satiate his blood-thirst. 

Well, maybe not. 

He ducked into a safe room at the same time everyone else did, making it seem as if he actually cared. He didn’t. Not in the slightest. All of these people standing around him were pitiful, minuscule in comparison to him. 

Of course, not Kurusu. 

No, no, Joker was too good for these lemmings. He, too, was nothing in Goro’s shadow, but he had _potential_. He had what Goro didn’t: The freedom to make his own decisions, to draw out when he wanted. It was unfair, unjust in the way that Kurusu had it all. Goro seethed behind his masks, half-listening to whatever he had to say. It was trivial. After the heist, Kurusu would be lured out by his goddamn hero complex and be handcuffed at the door. 

What Goro would give to do the honors himself, let the petty thief fall to his mercy. Staring intently at his opponent, he imagined what it would be like to shove him to the ground, face first. To have his pale skin all scratched up by the asphalt, only to be bruised even more by Goro’s shiny, polished boot. He could only imagine the satisfaction of restraining his hands and letting the metal sting his skin, rings of flowers blooming around his arteries. Capturing the elusive phantom thief would be finally obtaining his white whale, his final trophy. 

Kurusu would be _his_. Not Shido’s, not Niijima’s, and certainly not in the possession of the idiot police force. 

“-Crow? You still with us?” 

Goro suppressed the urge to smash Sakamoto’s face into the table repeatedly until his skull and his mask become one and the same. The blonde waved a hand in front of his face, nearly impaling itself on the point of his red beak. He plastered on a saccharine smile, letting the sparkle ooze out of him like it did on TV. 

“I’m still present. Just a little unfocused.” 

Kurusu frowned behind his mask, leaning on the table with cat-like poise. Goro fucking _dared_ him to call him out, tell him to get his head back in the game and be better. For the team, he’d say. The only reason Goro would consider accepting his trivial requests of “ _Better_ ” and “ _More_ ” would be if he issued a challenge. Childish, Goro admitted, but anything for the satisfaction of beating him and beating him _hard_. 

But, of course, life is unfair and you don’t always get what you want.

“Crow, I want you on the frontline. It’ll wake you up.” Kurusu said, turning to leave. The others filed out obediently, leaving Goro to grumble by himself. The wild-haired boy held the door for him, waiting expectantly. Goro bit back a snarl. The simple act of waiting for him made the detective’s skin crawl with scathing rage. He wasn’t sure why. Kurusu turned, unreadable as he signaled for the rest of the thieves to go on. 

This was odd.

And strangely off-putting.

Goro didn’t like it. 

“What’s wrong, Joker?” He beamed, hoping the brightness would hide the strain in his voice. The boy looks at him, that deep, penetrating gaze that seems to make Goro feel like he’s about to crack. He’s on edge. They both are, staring at each other like two greek statues, cold and legendary. Kurusu spoke:

“Show me your gun.” He ordered, in a way that made Goro’s teeth itch to snap back at him. But he didn’t. He complied. Kurusu took the gun in his slender hands, gloved with scarlet leather. The color was so rich and the texture was so smooth that it made him want to rip them open. It was too brilliant for this disgusting world. The boy unloaded the gun and took a look at the trigger. Goro had to stop himself from scoffing. Kurusu wasn’t a gun expert, he was a high-schooler and he didn’t know _shit_ about guns the way Goro did-

“Why have you been shooting so much?” He asked, seemingly mild. Goro’s speech stuttered and he wanted to kick himself. 

“W-What do you mean? How can you tell?” 

The utter bastard smiled. He loaded the gun, speaking again with the arrogance of a cat who caught the mouse in the trap of its claws. “Your reaction. I don’t know shit about how bullets work in the Metaverse,” He laughed as if talking with a friend, “But I needed something to catch you off guard. You don't have to act around me, Crow."

Goro’s gut wrenched and he wanted to throw up. He was not in control. This was not where he wanted to be. Goro wanted to hit him so hard that Kurusu would see _stars_. He wanted to make him bleed out so much the only thing he could see was Goro’s face. He wanted to see his face fall as the gun was pressed against the smooth skin of his forehead, the metal cold and harsh in Goro’s steady hand. 

His hand would not shake. 

His hand would _not_ shake. 

_His_ _hand_. 

_Would_ _not_. 

_Shake_.

The boy in front of him removed his mask, pinching his brow in exasperation. Goro felt the roof of his mouth tense like a cog stuck amongst the others, the momentum building up as Kurusu wouldn’t _fucking_ shut up. “It's ok, Crow, you're safe. I'm here for you. “ Goro scoffed now, his other mask faltering behind his red one. 

“Shut up, like hell you are.” 

Kurusu’s face flinched in shock and hurt. He reached out, placing a hand on Goro’s arm. It burned. “Don’t fucking touch me!” 

Th scarlet-gloved hand recoiled as if stung. It was pleading now, the look on his face. It made his gut warm, the tremor in his fingers itching to stretch it out, to make it even worse. 

“I thought we were making progress?” Kurusu said softly. 

“ _Progress_ ”, in Kurusu’s eyes, was the pair living for the stolen moments they used up, hiding from the rest because they knew it was a gamble. Kurusu would plead and beg and Goro would have him at his mercy, eliciting those wonderful sounds from the back of his throat. He had convinced himself that this was another way for him to exert control, to have the phantom thief at his mercy, but he knew that he was fucked. Shido expected results and Goro had to deliver. He hated Kurusu, and he made it known with the bitemarks, the scratches down his back, the bruises mapped out like stars on the boy’s hips in the shape of Goro’s fingertips. It was exhilarating, hiding it from Shido, from the rest of the thieves. They all knew his true intentions but didn’t know Goro had already resigned to them being neck in neck with him in the race for his retribution. 

He was angry now, he wanted to scream and he wanted power. 

Goro removed his red mask, biting at Kurusu’s lower lip. The boy shuddered, devoting himself to the volatile grip of his soon-to-be-murderer. At least, that was what Goro had planned. 

Kurusu did not submit. He fought to stay on top, pinning Goro’s hands down to the table, tipping a chair over in the process. Goro didn’t expect this. He didn’t plan this, and he wasn’t sure where it was going. It was new and Goro couldn't navigate where Kurusu's shivers and arches showed themselves. 

It was _almost_ too much. 

But it was, in a way, not unenjoyable. 

He ignored the red alarms blaring in the back of his head, saying "Shido will make you pay for this," and "Kurusu is gaining the upper hand." 

Maybe he was. 

Goro would have to take it back soon, but he let the phantom thief enjoy himself before he took the power back from his crimson-covered hands. He let the gloves, so rich and vibrant, unbutton the white shirt he wore, slipping inside like quicksilver. Goro seized the moment to flip around, pinning Kurusu to the table, kissing him with just enough strength to make him whine when he left him there. 

Goro buttoned up his shirt and left the safe room.

Joker was perfect. There was no denying it, the mask hid the awkwardness and the immaturity of Kurusu Akira. When moving, he was fluid, ruthless and languid. He took pleasure in the admiration and attraction his careless appeal showered him in. Goro almost forgot that Joker was a year younger than him. What he didn't forget was how easy it would be to reduce him to nothing in front of his friends with the subtle flick of his wrist. 

Back when they had first started sneaking away, Goro had never expected to get as hooked on the rush of seeing the look on Kurusu's face as he was now. They had simply been at a loose end, frayed and tense and they used each other as an outlet. They didn't know why it was the only thing to do, but it just was. There was no other way of coping if they didn't let themselves go, unleashing themselves on each other like a monsoon. 

With Kurusu, he was eager to please at first, doing anything to draw the praise from Goro's mouth. Of course, he got cocky. He was the leader of the Phantom Thieves, after all. Secretly, Goro was so terribly craven and eager that he just about worshipped any time and touch given to him. A wolfish-ravening lamb and an honorable villain. They were a match made in Hell, doomed from the start and blessed to the end. It wasn't love. It was something far more visceral and tangible than the fleeting object of many people's desires. It wasn't just lust either. 

It was something that burned like whiskey on its way down, something that hurt so gloriously that you could _die_.

It was something that could break fate. 

It was something that made Akechi Goro's hand shake against Kurusu Akira's forehead, staring down the barrel of the gun to look up at him with those fiendishly angelic eyes. Instead of shooting him, Goro kissed him, his fingernails carving crescent moons in the tender skin between where his ribcage and his hips dipped, smooth and sensitive. He let his lips ghost over Kurusu's collarbones, knowing how wild it would drive him. Wild to the point of crying out his name. They were not discreet. But he had no need to worry.

The camera had been turned off.

It was something that kept him going against a gunshot to the stomach, held in the arms of this damned saint, who wouldn't let him die. 

Why wouldn't he let him die?

They were the thesis and the antithesis, but without the thesis, the antithesis is nothing. But the thesis can still exist. He was a foil, not the hero. He would never be the hero. No fancy white suit with a shiny "A" on the belt could ever change that. The boy hiding tender hands behind such daring gloves could still exist. Goro could not, not with the state that the scales had been upturned into.

Life was unfair. 

It was something that kept the heat of their palms fiery enough to burn through the cry of a false god, a counterfeit herald of the End. They sat, sharing a cell in the sapphire confines of velvet and iron, quiet and waiting for the dream to stop. For the house of cards to come falling down, the Joker conquered by the Ace of Spades. But it didn't. The cards stacked beautifully, like a creation born of intricate mechanisms just outside of their reach. Goro wanted to die there, just give in and let the world settle itself out. But he couldn't die here. Akira was still alive. To die now would be losing, and if there was one thing Goro hated more than losing, it would be losing to Akira.

That time, there was no pain. Goro didn't need the control to know that Akira wouldn't leave. There were soft touches of a raven-feathered dove, sweetness so gentle it coaxed them him killing a God. Goro was taught how to lose a winning match. It was rather poetic, really.

And now they were here, facing the loss of great power and pain, but they were _here_. Without Loki or Robin Hood, Goro felt the heaviness of killing off power like a swift kick to the back of his knees, rendering him defenseless to what he previously regarded as lesser than himself. 

Goro was normal again. 

Powerless, just like everyone else.

It was a harsh tug back to normality, knowing that there were no more boys in red gloves and white masks, no more seventy-six bullet-shaped holes in shadows and no more reconnaissance in rooms hidden from the human mind. 

But there were stolen kisses behind a coffee counter, hours after the door had been locked but the window left ajar. There were movie nights that went on until early morning, the sunlight encouraging groans from the boy with messy hair and ungloved hands. There were still secret meetings away from the others, salty and hot in the sticky summer heat, arching and shaking like lightning rods letting the electricity run through them.

Goro missed it, sometimes, looking up at his ceiling and feeling the phantom weight of a gun in his left hand itch to pull the trigger. The itch would be quelled by the timid weight of a hand sliding into his. 

Goro's hand didn't shake.

**Author's Note:**

> just a little something i like to call  
> gorocan'tprocesshisemotionssohecallseverythinghate


End file.
